


The Secret Life of a Superhero (Cape Not Included)

by MmmYellowFlickerBeat



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke as sole (not always reliable) narrator, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Journalist!Clarke, Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Superhero!Lexa, Superheroes, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9668660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MmmYellowFlickerBeat/pseuds/MmmYellowFlickerBeat
Summary: Superhero AU:The emergence of a new, mysterious superhero has the entire city of Polis on edge. Is their spandex-wearing vigilante truly well intentioned, or is she just the latest in a long line of problematic, vindictive copycats? Most of the public isn’t so sure. Clarke gets assigned to the story, and when she and her superhero have to work together to truly save the world, her headlines start to uncover the truth about the woman behind the mask.





	1. The Dark Flame

 

 

> Polis News Review
> 
> **BREAKING: Masked** **“Hero” Hits City Streets, Here’s What YOU Need to Know**
> 
> By BELLAMY BLAKE       
> 
> March 19, 2018
> 
> As Spiderman is to New York, and Batman is to Gotham, so now is the recently reported “Dark Flame” to our beloved city of Polis. Wearing a black spandex suit and wielding only a knife, a woman subdued three robbers singlehandedly in a dark alleyway on the east side last night. The brief exchange was caught on video by a nearby traffic cam, but police are unsure how the suspects came to be tied together against a dumpster or how the masked woman escaped the dead end alley without being caught on camera.
> 
> Officers responding to the incident found various illegal firearms, stolen wallets, and even the banned substance Rohypnol on one of the suspects. They were arrested and are facing charges for illegal weapons possession, theft, and drug possession. Bail has been set at $15,000 for each of the suspects, two of whom have multiple prior convictions.
> 
> So what _is_ known about the mysterious Dark Flame? Exclusive video footage reveals a 5’7” female with a slender build, and although well over ten thousand Polis residents are estimated to fit this rough description, no additional details of her appearance are available at this time. The only two witnesses, Mr. John Murphy and Mr. Jasper Jordan, adamantly insist they saw the woman “flying away like she was from [expletive] Krypton” while fleeing the scene, although police are decidedly skeptical about these claims (both were highly intoxicated during the event). While no criminal charges are being filed against the mysterious woman at present, the police investigation into her identity remains ongoing.
> 
> Little is known about the so-called Dark Flame’s motives. Was she punishing evil? Keeping Polis’s streets free of crime and senseless violence? Or does this mark the beginning of a violent crusade that should have the rest of us law abiding citizens all worried for our safety? After the nationally publicized arrests of criminal “superheroes” Emerald Hawk and the Blue Baron in Florida and New York, we may simply be seeing Polis rise as the next target of another fad-following copycat. One thing is for certain: Outside of our beloved comic books, masked vigilantes aren’t always the well intentioned figures they’re made out to be.
> 
> Police Chief Charles Pike reminds us that until we know more about the woman behind the mask, citizens should be wary of her motives. “My main concern is keeping the people of this city safe, and based on what we’ve seen so far, she’s _clearly_ dangerous,” he he told reporters from Polis News Review hours after the event. “Don’t try to approach her, and don’t try to engage. If you see her in public, notify the station right away. With your cooperation, I’m certain we’ll have this unfortunate situation taken care of in no time.”
> 
> The Polis Police Department is requesting anyone with any information on the identity of the masked woman (pictured below) to contact the station and file a report. The Polis News Review will continue to provide updates as this story develops.

 

* * *

 

 

A pixelated photo of the woman in question sat below the article. Judging by the horrid resolution, Clarke could only assume that it had been photographed by a potato, or whatever vegetable had also captured the likenesses of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster.

The story caused her blood to boil. Of all people, Bellamy _fucking_ Blake had broken the story first. Professionally, he’d been the bane of her existence ever since their years at Stanford, and once again, he’d beaten her to the punch due to no merits of his own. While Clarke had been working on another stupid puff piece for a column on 6B—totally her editor in chief’s decision—she’d missed the biggest story in at least the last six months.

The story itself was ridiculous, of course. Wannabe super heroes wearing spandex were a dime a dozen, especially when those comic conventions came through town. But as luck would have it, Polis’s new “superhero” was all everyone had been talking about the entire weekend. Bellamy Blake’s absurd “fucking Krypton” interview with the belligerently drunk duo of Jasper Jordan and John Murphy had been auto-tuned into a three minute music video, which had surpassed two million views and was now one of the top sellers on iTunes.

She crumpled up the offending newspaper and threw the whole lot into the wastebasket by her workstation. Then she leaned back in her desk chair and watched the cursor on her screen blink across the blank page of her next project. It’s like the damned thing was deliberately teasing her. Clarke sighed so loudly that it sounded like a growl.

“What’s got your panties in a twist this morning?” Raven leaned around her computer across and raised a single eyebrow, all the while sipping her morning coffee.

They’d been sharing a workstation for the last two years, and she still wasn’t nearly as bothered as Clarke was about the entire fiasco. She had no bags underneath her eyes, her skin was glowing, and her dark hair was sleek as ever. Clarke on the other hand, looked an uncharacteristic mess with her tousled hair and wrinkled blouse. She’d read Blake’s article at least fifty times with steam coming out of her ears this morning, nearly making herself late for work.

“Have you seen last Friday’s cover for the Polis News Review?” Clarke asked bitterly.

“Ah. _That_ ,” Raven grinned at her. “Look Clarke—don’t stress about it. I’m sure you’ll get your chance to write your bit on the spandex connoisseur soon enough.”

Raven went back to typing, and her rhythmic pattering on the keyboard only highlighted what Clarke couldn’t bring herself to do. She was completely blocked, unable to get a single idea to spring to life on her screen.

Even if she started writing up a piece on the Dark Flame, she was three days too late, and she had no contacts to build up her story content. Bellamy had interviewed the police chief, several detectives, witnesses—everyone. Not only would nobody be interested in anything Clarke wrote so long after the fact, it was guaranteed to read like utter shit in comparison.

“I don’t get it,” Clarke said. “I’ve worked here for five years. I’ve written up every dumb project Jaha has ever assigned me, and I’ve never missed a deadline—not once. Why am I still getting a second rate beat column that’s only ever posted on pages four to seven?”

“That’s life,” Raven said. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like to pay the bills.” That was easy for Raven to say; her science and technology articles were always on the on page two or at the bottom of page one.

Clarke shook her head. “Shit. If I’d have known journalism was like this, I would’ve just been a stripper.”

“Just ask Jaha if you can write something else. You write on the beat column, so the possibilities are endless. Until he bumps you to page one, he shouldn’t care what you write, as long as you give him something.”

“You clearly weren’t there the last time I asked,” Clarke mumbled.

Jaha had given her this look when she’d pitched her idea—like she’d sprouted three heads or grown antlers—before laughing so hard he’d nearly collapsed in tears. The editor in chief clearly had his own ideas about how to run the city’s most respected newspaper and didn’t appreciate input from his staff journalists.

“I think Jaha has it out for me,” Clarke said. “You get to choose your own stories. Even Octavia gets to write whatever she wants— _and_ she gets to do TV interviews!”

Raven stopped typing and leaned over to face her again. “Octavia runs the sports column. You _hate_ sports, Clarke.”

“It’s the fucking principle of it all!” Her friend chuckled at Clarke’s indignation. “I’m tired of Jaha and his stupid ass ties giving me all the shitty puff pieces nobody else wants to write. Did you see what he had me take to print last week?” It had been the story that kept Clarke from covering Polis’ new superhero, and she’d been kicking herself for it ever since, not that there was anything she could’ve done about it. Her hands had been tied because around here, Jaha’s word was law.

Raven winced at the reminder. “Yeah, that wasn’t your finest work. Your heart wasn’t really into it.”

“Raven, I interviewed a lady who owned forty-seven pet squirrels.”

“That sounds pretty nuts,” Raven deadpanned. She paused afterward, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

Clarke glared at her. “I fucking hate you.”

Raven cackled so loudly that others started to peer over the edges of their cubicles to see what was going on. Clarke buried her face in her hands, the cursor still blinking uselessly on her screen. Neither of them heard the approaching sound shoes clicking against the tile floor behind them.

“Reyes!” a familiar deep voice boomed outside their cubicle.

Raven’s laughter choked in her throat, making a strangled sound. Clarke sat up straight, and her hands flew to her keyboard like she’d been writing the entire time. Raven nearly fell out of her seat trying to get back to her computer. Jaha reached the side of their shared desk and stopped, folding his arms across his chest.

“It seems like we’ve all missed out on your jokes this morning, Ms. Reyes. I certainly hope I’m not interrupting your work.” Jaha narrowed his eyes at the two of them.

Clarke gave him a sidelong glance, and she nearly lost it again when she saw the latest in his long line of ridiculous ties. It was lime green with… lady bug print? She met Raven’s eyes, and the two of them had to bite their bottom lips to keep from laughing again.

“No sir, not at all,” Raven replied, her voice strained from keeping a straight face.

“I’m glad to hear your work isn’t too taxing for you both,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “But I see nothing funny about the Polis Times getting slaughtered on last Friday’s morning edition. It was a humiliating showing, and this entire staff ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

Raven and Clarke both balked at him before turning uneasily to each other. He’d always push the blame to his writers when sales were bad, and laud himself when they were favorable, so his words weren’t surprising. What _was_ surprising? The timing. Jaha usually only worked himself up into a right state by mid-afternoon. Yet here he was, already tetchy and unpleasant at half past eight in the morning, and nobody had even flooded the bathroom by his office yet.

“Sir?” Clarke said.

“Our sales were down sixty percent,” he explained. “Polis News Review sold their entire first run in two hours, and they sold out their second run another six hours after that. I must admit, I’m disappointed. You were sleeping on a major story, Griffin.” While Jaha preached, Clarke discreetly rolled her eyes at the unfairness of his accusation. Meanwhile, Raven gave her a sympathetic look. “That Baloney Blake story is all anyone is talking about.”

“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke corrected.

“That’s what I said, Griffin.”

Clarke blinked several times, and Jaha stood by their desk awkwardly, spacing out mentally and saying nothing. He put his hands inside his jacket pockets and swayed annoyingly on his feet, admiring the fluorescent lights and the ceiling tiles overhead. Raven cleared her voice loudly to get his attention, but it was no good.

“Did you have something else sir?” Clarke asked.

Jaha seemed to realize where he was and shook himself out of whatever trance he’d been in. “Yes, I wanted to see where you were on your projects for Wednesday.”

Clarke glanced at her empty screen guiltily, but it was Raven who spoke up first. “I’m working on an article about how climate change is going to overwhelm our country’s existing electrical grid by 2025.”

“Climate change? Our top investor owns one of the largest oil refineries this side of the state. Something else, please— _anything_ else.”

Raven actually looked offended by the brushoff, but she quickly hid her anger. “There’s this one I was thinking about doing on a new accelerometer for ‘specialty’ fitness smart devices.”

Jaha nodded thoughtfully. “That’s more like it. Tell me more.”

“Well you see,” Raven said innocently, “the new accelerometer measures energy expenditure by females during sex. Kind of like a Fitbit meets a NuvaRing—”

“Okay enough!” Jaha cut her off. “Write about global warming, for God’s sake.” He closed his eyes to clear the mental image Raven had put in his head before turning toward Clarke. “What are you working on, Griffin? Please spare my any of the gory, sexual details.”

Clarke opened her mouth, then closed it again before any words came out. The blank screen on her computer betrayed her total lack of progress.

“Well… Mr. Jaha… I’m kind of in the planning stages right now…” she fumbled awkwardly, trying to avoid his gaze.

“Actually no, forget that I asked,” Jaha interrupted her. He lifted his index finger up in the air excitedly and smiled. “I have _just_ the assignment for you.”

Clarke stomach sank, and she gulped in apprehension. Nothing good ever happened when Thelonious Jaha smiled like that. The look in his eyes carried an all too familiar brand of crazy. She and Raven both eyed their boss warily as he writhed his hands together.

“The Polis Times is the oldest, most prestigious news company in the city. This past week was a smear on our reputation as the most reliable news source for our people, but you can help us correct that now.”

“What is it that you want me to do?” Clarke asked.

“I’d like you to go on a special assignment. Polis Times is going to break the story on the Dark Flame’s identity, and _you_ are going to write it.”

“But sir, I don’t even know—”

“No buts, Griffin,” Jaha told her. “For years you’ve been pestering me to give you bigger assignments, and this your opportunity. Do whatever it is you need to do. From what I hear, Barnacle Blake is dating one of the detectives on the case. Follow his example if you need to. Hell, I don’t care if you have to spend three days sleeping in that dumpster over off Southtown Street to get your story. Just do not,” he leaned closer for emphasis, “ _do not_ let Nia Khjcznsky get ahold of this one. This one is ours.”

“Who?”

“Nia Kznchyjsk.”

Clarke looked at him blankly. It sounded like a small woodland creature had crawled into his throat and sneezed.

“She’s the new editor in chief at Polis News Review,” he explained. “Don’t know why they hired her. Everyone knows you can’t trust anyone without any vowels in their last name. She’s a total nightmare, completely full of herself.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Raven muttered under her breath.

Thankfully, Jaha didn’t hear her. Someone had called his name from ten cubicles over, and Jaha had let out a soft string of curses. It looked as if the bathroom was flooded early today. He watched the water spread across the tile floor with an exasperated look on his face.

“So, how about it Griffin? You think you’re up to the task?” Jaha asked her.

Clarke glanced once more the blank page on her screen and thought of Mrs. Byrne and her menagerie of domesticated squirrels. That kind of work was beneath someone who’d graduated summa cum laude from Stanford. It wasn’t an experience she ever wanted to repeat again.

She still thought her boss was full of shit, but she couldn’t deny that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. If she nailed this one, she’d be able to demand any story she wanted after that.

“You can count me in, sir.” Then looking at Raven, she smirked. “I won’t let you down.”

 


	2. Anti-Pulitzer Prize Winner Clarke Griffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from war! (Sort of.)
> 
> I don't know if anyone's legitimately following this, and I only have the vaguest idea where it's going myself, so buckle up for a wild ride? It should be fun, if nothing else.

Clarke was rarely late for work, but some mornings, it couldn’t be helped. Like the time a horde of firetrucks and police cars shut down Main Street, causing a traffic jam that even New York City’s worst rush hour would be impressed with. Some huge fire had broken out in the early morning, and the smoke was only now starting to clear out over a mile away. The ordeal had been a royal pain in her ass.

After Jaha’s new assignment, she’d made a point to arrive early so she could call around, gathering witnesses and experts that would help her on her next big story. It hadn’t been long since she’d gotten the assignment, but ever since then, she’d been the first one in the office and the last to leave. Today was an anomaly.

She stumbled into her cubicle just past ten o’clock—over two hours late—hair slightly askew and her coffee going cold. Raven raised her eyebrow at her from over the computer monitor, perfectly put together and calm, unbothered by whatever hellscape had consumed Clarke’s neighborhood and ruined her day.

“You look like you’ve had a rough morning,” Raven observed.

 _No shit, Sherlock_.

“Traffic was a bitch,” she explained instead, shrugging off her coat. “I swear to God, if some punk thought they were being cute and blew up the dumpsters again, I’ll—”

“Wait,” Raven cut her off. She looked serious all of a sudden. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

Clarke paused her rant. “Heard what?”

“Jesus, Clarke.” Raven’s head shook disbelievingly. “I know you’re stressed out, but are you living under a rock or something? It was all over the news this morning. Literally everywhere. The radio, TV, the internet. I hear it even trended for like five hours on Twitter. US and Worldwide.”

Clarke’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She had no idea what Raven was talking about, and normally Raven wouldn’t have needed an invitation to start gossiping about the latest scandals or goings on around the city. She was reluctant to say, which should have been the first sign that something was terribly wrong.

“What are you talking ab—”

“GRIFFIN!” came a booming shout from down the hall.

Clarke startled and nearly dropped her coffee. It tasted like shit, and she probably wouldn’t drink the rest of it anyway having temporarily sated her caffeine fix, but she certainly didn’t want to deal with the sticky mess. She adjusted the cup in her hand and straightened up before Jaha came barging into view with a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His wet, tassled shoes squeaked on the tile floor, and his tie swung against his chest as he skidded to a halt in the open doorway.

He’d chosen a nice, refined shade of fuchsia today, tastefully decorated with polka dots the size of quarters. Clarke had the briefest urge to laugh, but the thunderous expression on her boss’s face brought her up short and temporarily saved her job. He looked ready to murder every piece office equipment in the cubicle if provoked.

“Good morning, sir,” Clarke greeted meekly. Her efforts to smooth over her boss’s anger may have well been directed at a feral cat for all the good it did.

“Don’t ‘good morning, sir’ me, Griffin,” he snapped. “Do you know who I just got off the phone with?”

Clarke and Raven shared confused looks with each other. They knew what Jaha was supposed to be doing as editor in chief, but they’d long since divested themselves of any belief that he ran the company normally. That the Polis Times was still afloat was a testimony to his son and understudy, Wells Jaha.

It was a miracle that someone so rational and competent shared genes with the blustering man in front of them, toilet-water soaked shoes and all.

“I don’t know sir,” Clarke mumbled.

“The Church of Euthanasia,” Jaha said.

“Ooo… kay?”

“They’ve canceled their six month advertising contract after our preliminary sales figures for this quarter. We’re just barely outselling the tin hat conspiracy newsletters this month. Meanwhile the Polis News Review has gotten at least a quarter of a million in new subscriptions just this past week.” He leveled an accusing glare at Clarke, like this development was entirely her fault. “If our sponsors keep pulling out, we’re fucked. Dead. Decaying in the 21st century’s new media wasteland. We’ll be as dead as… Oh Christ, what’s the name of that shitty tween drama factory that shuttered up this past fall?” He snapped his fingers together as he thought to himself.

Clarke frowned. “Umm…”

“The CW?” Raven offered.

Jaha’s eyes lit up, and he slapped his hands together approvingly. “Yes! That’s the one!”

“But sir, we’re news, not television. We can’t just—”

“Enough!” Jaha interrupted. “By any measure, even compared to those shitstains over at Breitbart, our business is flailing. I need journalists who are dedicated and pulling their weight. Instead,” he said in an angry huff, “I have so many empty ad spaces, my hemorrhoids are acting up!”

Raven pulled a disgusted face, and Clarke shook her head, trying to clear that unfortunate visual from her mind. The complaint sounded like a thinly veiled accusation. “I’m only an hour late, sir. The traffic—”

“To hell with the traffic! I wouldn’t care if you came in five hours late wearing a vomit-stained clown suit if I didn’t have to wake up to this kind of atrocity in the morning.”

Before Clarke had a chance to ask what she’d done now, Jaha carelessly tossed the newspaper he’d brought onto Clarke’s desk, where it landed front page up. Her eyes flew to the massive print at the top of the first page, which read: _Dark Flame Strikes Again, Leaving Criminals All Hot and Bothered_.

Her cheeks burned with shame and her stomach dropped. The first time, she’d had an excuse, but now she was on the story, and she’d been caught sleeping. Before she could apologize or try to explain herself, Jaha drove the knife in deeper and twisted it.

“This is the second time that Belieber Blake fellow has gotten the drop on you, Griffin. The Dark Flame strikes again, right on your doorstep if I’m not mistaken, and you don’t even have a _draft_ ready for me?”

Despite still standing, Clarke felt like she shrank by at least three inches. Not only was she mortified, she was beyond pissed off.

How had Bellamy _fucking_ Blake broken the story before she did—again—when it was all she had been eating, sleeping and breathing for the past four days?

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Clarke said through gritted teeth.

“You’re damned right it won’t,” Jaha scoffed. “This is your second strike, Griffin. Next time, I’ll be hiring a new beat writer. One that actually gets the breaking news stories to print. I’ll even get that Bermuda Blaze from the Polis New Review if I have to. The lad’s gonna’ win a Pulitzer at the rate he’s going.”

“What about me?”

“If you don’t to win the… well, whatever the hell the Anti-Pulitzer Prize is, then I suggest you figure something out. I wasn’t kidding about living in a dumpster, by the way. Journalists are supposed to be ruthless. Do whatever it is you need to do, but if this Dark Flame turns up one more time without us being first on the story…” When he trailed off, there was an implied threat in his tone.

Clarke’s job. Those were the stakes. It would be the Polis Times versus the Polis News Review. Clarke Griffin versus Bellamy Blake—again. He’d resorted to underhanded scheming to win during their college years, but this time, it was Clarke’s game to win.

“I understand, Mr. Jaha,” Clarke said. “Next superhero sighting, I’ll have your story in time for the morning run.”

“Good.” He nodded and started to walk away, but abruptly turned on his heel just before he left the cubicle. “By the way, since you are late, as you so astutely pointed out, why don’t you go ahead and give maintenance a call. They need to come take care of the toilet. Someone’s flooded it again.”

After the glib little request, Jaha walked away with a spring in his annoyingly squeaky steps. Now freed from his clutches, Clarke collapsed in her seat and buried her face in her hands. She let out the longest sigh ever, surprising even herself by how much air she could expel from her lungs.

Raven watched her sympathetically, but it seemed even she didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps, she was wise enough to say nothing at all and let Clarke deal with her embarrassment in fucking peace.

Clarke pulled her hands away, and pulled the morning edition of the Polis News Review toward her. Her temper flared when she saw Bellamy’s name printed below the title.

“That smarmy son of a bitch,” she grumbled as she skimmed the rest of the page.

 

* * *

  

 

 

 

> Polis News Review
> 
> **BREAKING: Dark Flame Strikes Again, Leaving Criminals All Hot and Bothered**
> 
> By BELLAMY BLAKE
> 
> March 26, 2018
> 
> Guess who’s back? (No, it’s not Slim Shady. And for those of you counting, that hasn’t been back in over ten years.)
> 
> For residents of the north side living between the 4100 and 5000 blocks of Main Street, the answer came in a fiery blaze that engulfed a local bank last night. And yet again, the incident appears to have been the workings of Polis’s own Dark Flame. This marks the second time this month the masked vigilante has graced the streets of our city. For all the excitement her newest appearance brings, witnesses and first responders recommend renewed caution: Whoever the masked “hero” is, there is growing cause for concern.
> 
> Monty Greene and Nathan Miller recalled the incident from across the street at The Ark, a popular bar located on this block of Main Street. “We didn’t realize it was her at first,” Greene said. “There was some woman wearing a long trench coat, which I thought was pretty weird considering the weather. She was waiting outside the bank, and when these three guys came out, she just went after them,” he explained, mimicking the impressive sequence of kicking and punching he’d seen from across the street. According to Miller, the vigilante subdued all three victims easily despite their clear size advantage. She then tied the three of them together, much like the first victims, against a nearby street post.
> 
> But that is where this story starts to get strange. Instead of making a surreptitious escape as she’d done before, the Dark Flame entered the abandoned bank (how exactly she accessed the locked doors remains unanswered), and moments later, the building suddenly exploded into a raging inferno. Experts say that the blast should have been powerful enough to kill (if not seriously injure) anybody trapped inside the building, yet within minutes, the masked marauder calmly walked out of the building towing an office safe, which she left at the feet of the bankers. She seemed to be unconcerned by the fact that her coat was on fire, which she calmly took off before flying off into the night sky in her signature black suit.
> 
> Yes you read that correctly. _Flying_. The supposedly unreliable witness testimony from Jasper Jordan and John Murphy was vindicated by Nathan Miller's live video stream of the incident, which has gone viral on several social media sites since last night.
> 
> Officials with the fire department have been baffled by the reasons as well as the mechanics of the incident. Fire Chief Sinclair admits that his department has no idea what caused the explosion. “Normally to have a fire that size develop that quickly, there would need to be an accelerant of some kind, which isn’t the case here. Nor can we find an adequate explanation for the explosion. There’s no evidence of a chemical or gas leak, and we’ve uncovered no signs of a detonation device. It’s as if—and pardon my pun here—the entire building just burst into flames.” Chief Sinclair also pointed out that no money was stolen from the facility, despite the fact that its primary safes were not engineered to be especially fire repellent. “I have no doubt that if she’d wanted to, she could have broken in and stolen thousands of dollars… millions, even. Financial gain doesn’t appear to be one of her motives.”
> 
> So what are her motives again? The safe she left outside the burning building may provide some answers. Preliminary police reports suggest that the safe is full of potentially incriminating documents, with wide-ranging allegations including fraud, aiding in drug and human trafficking, insider trading, and theft. The substance and integrity of these documents is currently being investigated, and while some officials are intrigued by the findings, not everyone at the police department is thrilled.
> 
> “We have a justice system in place to handle these sorts of things,” Detective Echo Henderson told the Polis News Review. “If you have a suspicion of illegal activity, you should report it to the appropriate legal authorities. This kind of precedent—taking the law into your own hands and turning to violence and destruction—is dangerous. Where does it end? What sort of line does a masked vigilante decide they won’t cross?” Detective Henderson asked. “Whoever is behind this, it can’t be allowed to continue.”
> 
> At least for now, district attorney Marcus Kane seems to agree. As of last night, he is strongly considering filing charges for assault, breaking and entering, and arson should the Dark Flame’s identity be revealed. He has told the Polis News Review he will be considering all possibilities in deterring Polis from becoming a beholden to the lawless marauder. He had no comment on what charges (if any) would be waiting for the alleged crimes of the three bankers.
> 
> The district attorney assured citizens he would share more information on the matter this afternoon at his press conference, which will air at 5 PM on channel 6 (KLAT).

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re upset,” Raven was obviously trying to coax Clarke into talking, but she wasn’t having much luck.

Clarke’s face had yet to leave her palms since she’d finished reading Bellamy’s article and threw it with almost superhuman strength into their shared recycling bin. She desperately wanted to be mad, but she couldn’t be mad at Raven. Maybe at Jaha, certainly at Bellamy, and maybe a little bit at this elusive Dark Flame woman, but not Raven.

“I called maintenance,” Raven added when she didn’t respond, “so you don’t need to worry about that any more.” Clarke stayed silent, hunched over her desk with her face buried in her hands. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Clarke grumbled.

Raven shrugged. “Fair enough.”

She resumed typing away at her keyboard, and for a few minutes, the only sound that could be heard were the clicking of keys and the distant ringing of telephones from other cubicles in the giant office space. Then the typing suddenly stopped.

“Really Clarke.” Raven pressed her. “What happened?” Clarke should have known that her friend’s curiosity was not to be trifled with.

“Is this your interpretation of ‘not wanting to talk about it’?”

“No, this is my interpretation of you wanting to keep your job,” she answered bluntly. Clarke finally looked up and glared at her. “Are you telling me that’s a wrong assumption?” Raven challenged.

“No.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” She sounded annoyingly proud of her logic. “So what happened? I thought you were working on the superhero story. How did you miss this?”

“I was,” Clarke defended. Then, she deflated again, realizing just how weak it sounded. Most normal people, journalists or not, would have been able to uncover something worth writing about, but Clarke’s run had been dry for the last few days.

Raven eyed her skeptically.

“I went up to Polis Correctional to visit the first victims… or criminals, whatever. Then I went to interview the witnesses, Jasper and John Murphy. I wanted to see if there was anything that the Polis News Review missed when they first broke the story,” Clarke explained. “Something that might give me some more information on the woman’s identity, how she chose her targets, where she might go next.”

“…And?” Raven urged after she went quiet.

“It was a total waste of my time.”

“You mean you didn’t get anything?”

“Oh no, I got more than I bargained for. Three date requests, a marriage proposal, and four highly effluent compliments on my boobs. But as far as this case? Nothing at all. It looks like the witnesses in jail were all coached not to talk, and those kids, Murphy and Jasper, were stoned out of their minds.”

Raven looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well… your boobs are very nice, Clarke.”

“Shut up,” Clarke said, cracking a grin for the first time today. She writhed her hands together nervously. “By the time I got back and reviewed their statements, the tapes, and my own photos from the scene, it was after midnight. I fell asleep without setting my alarm, and then _this_ happened.”

The incident in question, Clarke had since learned, happened around one o’clock in the morning. How even Bellamy Blake had gotten the story to print for the morning edition was a mystery even to her. He must have pulled some strings with his new editor-in-chief to delay the printing run.

“Shit happens.”

“Well I can’t afford for any more ‘shit’ like this to happen again. Not with this story.” Clarke flung herself back into her chair. Her computer was begging her to sign on with its blank login screen, but she ignored it for the moment. “I just don’t know where to go from here,” she groaned.

“You want my advice?” Raven asked.

“If I said ‘no,’ it’s not like that would stop you from giving it anyway, so go ahead.”

“This may be the first and only time I ever tell you this,” Raven said, her voice dropping low, “but I think you should listen to Jaha’s advice.”

Clarke gaped at her. “What? By moving into a dumpster?”

“That depends. You plan on getting fired that soon?”

“If I don’t start getting any better advice than that, then yes.”

“Har, har, har.” Raven played along with her joke, then leaned in closer. After the shift in her expression, Clarke could tell she was being serious now. “I’m talking about taking a page out of Blake’s book. You’ve still got your press pass that’ll get you into the precinct, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So use it. He’s got his connections on the force, so who’s to say you can’t do the same?”

“I’m not sleeping my way around for this story,” Clarke retorted, affronted.

Raven scoffed and flicked Clarke hard on her nose. The blonde let out a weak yelp and rubbed at it, staring daggers at her desk mate.

“If you’d listen, that’s not what I’m suggesting, numbnuts,” Raven scolded her. “I’m saying you should go there, pick out a detective with some serious professional aspirations, and go be your usual charming self. Any detective who gives a shit about solving that case would love to have another set of eyes and ears out on the streets, helping them with research. A working, Stanford-educated brain is just another plus. It’s teamwork, Clarke, not a fucking episode of _Love Connection_.”

“It is for Bellamy,” Clarke mumbled.

“Forget about fucking Belieber, or Bonbon, or whatever the hall Jaha’s calling him these days. Once you break this story Clarke, nobody’s gonna remember that jackhole’s lame excuse for investigative journalism. They’re just gonna know you, your story, and how you helped to reveal the woman behind the spandex. Great stories are born from great opportunity.”

“I see you’ve been working on your inspirational speeches again,” Clarke said, making Raven swell with pride. “Of course, I know that’s only because you’ve watched _Miracle on Ice_ at least fifty times on Netflix.”

Raven’s face fell. “You wound me, Griffin.”

“I’ve got to bring you back down to my level somehow,” Clarke said.

She gathered her belongings from her desk, including her press pass, and stuffed them into her oversized purse. There was work to be done, and Clarke wasn’t going to waste another minute sitting around here waiting for Jaha to berate her again.

“Going somewhere?” Raven watched Clarke bag her things with delight.

“The precinct,” Clarke answered. “I’m taking your advice. If Bellamy wants to make this a tagteam fight, I’m going to take it to him. He’s going down.”

“That’s my girl,” Raven said with a grin. “Just be sure you bring food. Cops and detectives, they love that shit.”

“Sure thing.”

 _Donuts_ , Clarke made a mental note to herself. _Definitely donuts_. There was a popular place off 4th Street that sold them fresh twenty-four hours a day. If she hurried, she could pick up a batch and be over at the precinct in an hour, depending on whether or not the traffic eased up anytime soon.  She grabbed her keys and rushed toward the cubicle’s exit.

Uh, Clarke?” Raven called her back just as she made it to the flimsy doorway.

“Yeah?”

Raven eyed the bag over Clarke’s shoulder. “Are you coming back to the office?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“Seriously?” Raven glowered at her. “Have you forgotten what tonight is?”

Clarke wracked her brains, but the best answer she could come up with was, “Monday night?”

“You better not let Octavia hear you say that.” At Clarke’s vacant expression, she added, “It’s Lincoln’s game tonight, dumbass. Remember? They’re playing up in Washington, and if they win, they’re just half a game behind the Flyers in the division. We talked about this weeks ago.”

The memory came back to Clarke in a rush. The Polis Warriors were finishing their last three games on a road trip that would determine whether or not they made the playoffs. First it was the Washington Capitals, then the Detroit Red Wings, and after that, their season finale in St. Louis. Since Octavia wouldn’t be making the trip, Clarke volunteered to host a game watching party at her place.

The embarrassment must have read plainly on her face, because Raven felt the need to reassure her.

“Don’t worry about it, the only reason I remember is because Octavia wouldn’t let me forget about it. I’ve already ordered food. It’ll be ready for pickup by four, so you’ll just need to be around to let me in.”

Clarke glanced down toward her feet. “Actually, I…”

“You _are_ going to be back by four, aren’t you?”

“I don’t… know?” Clarke needed to accomplish something on this case today just to save face, and if that took all afternoon, she was determined to make it happen.

Raven muttered something under her breath, pulled out her phone, and sent a quick flurry of text messages off before she finally acknowledged what Clarke had said. “Fine. Just give me the keys to your place then.”

Clarke balked at her.

“I’m not going to be that creep waiting outside your building for three hours until you get home,” Raven argued.

Clarke supposed she had a point, and the tone of Raven’s voice made her believe she was referring to the walking, stalking disaster that had been Finn Collins. She quickly tried to remember if she’d left the place looking like a disaster or not—though Raven wouldn’t care regardless—and reluctantly unclipped the key to her apartment, handing it over.

“Don’t worry Clarke,” Raven said, “I’ll be sure to hide any pornographic materials before your guests arrive.”

Clarke winced. “Who all is coming over exactly?” She only vaguely remembered having this conversation before, and thankfully, Raven didn’t seem to mind recalling it for her.

“Myself and Octavia obviously. Then there’s Atom, Wells, Lincoln’s sister, and one of her friends from work.”

“Lincoln’s sister?” Clarke had met Lincoln’s sister once, the experience left her thankful to have escaped with her life. It was a terrifying experience she didn’t want to repeat again.

“She’s one of Octavia’s friends too,” Raven reminded her, which shouldn’t have been a surprise as Octavia and Lincoln were technically engaged.

“I’m pretty sure she hates me.”

“Nah, she doesn’t _hate_ you,” Raven said. “She just thinks you’re batshit crazy ever since you told her you hate hockey.”

“I don’t hate it,” Clarke argued. _I just seriously lack any fucks to give about it_.

Raven saw though the white lie easily. “Whatever you say, Griffin,” she said, grinning. “The game starts at six thirty. Don’t be late, and if you’re feeling a little adventurous, you can bring your new detective friend back home with you.”

“Don’t get cute, Raven." She stalked off and Raven roared with laughter. 

The sound followed her all the way to the elevators, as did the judging eyes from each of the cubicles she passed on the way out. Based on their glares, Clarke really, _really_ needed to make headway with this story before she came back tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preliminary summary for next chapter: Clarke and Lexa finally meet, sparks fly (or something like that?), and Lincoln's team wins.


End file.
